


white

by brandywine421



Series: Unfinished AUs of Flail (aka fail) [6]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, F/M, Gen, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-12
Updated: 2015-12-12
Packaged: 2018-05-06 05:36:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5404991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brandywine421/pseuds/brandywine421
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He could breathe.  It meant he was alive.  He didn't need to bleed if he could breathe.</p>
<p>When he showered and rested without admitting it as sleep, he would hide the curled painting with his supplies in a locked box that someone would probably sell on Ebay when he died this time.</p>
<p>He hoped Sam would give the pretty ones to Wanda for him before he sold the rest.  He deserved the cash for sticking with him this long.</p>
<p>Wanda deserved everything pretty.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>(Part of a collection of abandoned, but not unloved, fics I will never finish.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	white

He's tired enough to admit he's tired but not tired enough to sleep.  Sleep hasn't been a friend of his in a while.  A happy marriage lasting 70 years ending in tears and hate like the divorces lining the news scrolls. If you could call those shows 'news'.  
  
He hits the glowing screen until it promises to be silent, to reassure his few friends left, or found, that he's sleeping.  Resting. Not thinking about the lost or found or left.  
  
He's never been that lucky.  
  
He settles in the bathroom of the house that isn't his with the brightness of the room he woke in. white like the ice he slept in.  
  
His hands don't shake as he lays out his tools. Colors that would always be new, the secret silent gift of the serum that he would miss more than the strength and the lungs and the inches.  The brushes that would always be small in his new fingers. The canvas as white and empty as his frozen heart.  
  
Frozen things didn't bleed.  Steve wasn't bleeding. He wouldn't bleed.  
  
He would take his fear and hate and all the things he wasn't allowed to hold and let them out on the canvas.  
  
He spat out the red, the visceral black he could taste behind his eyes and let it curl and pool on the cloth.  He purged as much as he could before he breathed in the cool fake freshened air of the bathroom cell.  
  
He could breathe.  It meant he was alive.  He didn't need to bleed if he could breathe.  
  
When he showered and rested without admitting it as sleep, he would hide the curled painting with his supplies in a locked box that someone would probably sell on Ebay when he died this time.  
  
He hoped Sam would give the pretty ones to Wanda for him before he sold the rest.  He deserved the cash for sticking with him this long.  
  
Wanda deserved everything pretty.  
  
  
*** *** ***  
  
  
It took longer than he wanted to get rid of the Cap's shadow but he finally got into the hotel without worrying about getting caught in a mousetrap.  
  
He remembered enough to not make a mess and refolded all the clothes he shook out for clues.  
  
The Cap wasn't stupid. But he wasn't running on all cylinders. He remembered that, too.  
  
There had to be something. Proof that he wasn't losing his mind, that he was finding it.  
  
He spotted the long, battered box on his third sweep and checked to make sure everything was back in place before slipping out.  
  
The Cap wouldn't hide art supplies. But Steve Rogers would.  Steve Rogers kept his heart in this box and he was going to find his key inside.  
  
  
*** *** ***  
  
  
"I think I'm ready to head back now.  I need to take care of some things," Steve said over breakfast.  
  
Sam put down his coffee hard, sloshing it on the table. Steve swiped at the puddle with his sleeve.  
  
"He was in my hotel room. He took some of my stuff. He knows we're here. He doesn't want to be found. He doesn't need me to save him this time.  I would like to leave now."  
  
"What did he take?"  
  
Steve didn't say it out loud.  It wouldn't mean the same thing.  It wouldn't make sense.  
  
He wasn't a liar.  "I miss Wanda."  
  
  
*** *** ***  
  
  
Steve understood now.  
  
The Winter Soldier wouldn't be Bucky.  Once, decades, lifetimes ago, they'd been the same man.  
  
Captain America had been Steve Rogers once.  But without Peggy or Bucky - that man didn't exist anymore.  A box of paints didn't change that.  It didn't make Steve Rogers alive.  
  
Captain America was needed.  Steve Rogers was dead.  
  
This was his life.  These were his goals.  Captain America would put on the suit and try and make this right.  Freedom.  He would fight Registration with the same conviction he'd fought for America when it still cared.  
  
The Winter Soldier wasn't a POW.  He wasn't a threat.  
  
He couldn't matter to Captain America and Steve Rogers was dead.  
  
Registration couldn't pass.  He would fight this war on the new front lines.  Congress, CNN, Twitter - all fronts needed to see Captain America.  
  
This was his mission.  This was his purpose.  
  
This would work.  
  
  
*** *** ***  
  
  
It was uneven, unfair, and he was from a different time with different fears and horrors.  
  
Besides, he'd never learned how to out-talk a Stark.  
  
But he did his best and Sam swore he'd made a dent at least, or most, in the public Registration agenda.  
  
He'd made sure that his allies followed his orders today.  He made them promise, to his face, to the honor system of the ones with the most to lose, that they'd hide until it was over.  
  
If Registration passed, they'd be targets.  He needed them to wait.  Hide.  
  
Hiding wasn't running.  
  
He was the Shield.  He had to stand for the people that were being forced to hide in this new war.  
  
He counted the faces behind the barricades like the seconds ticking down on the voting clock, the tally only getting higher without a sign outside of what side was right or wrong, winning or losing.  
  
He'd be in chains or sweatpants in the next four hours.  
  
He was Captain America, for better or worse.  
  
The sharp spear of pain in his spine only left time for a single breath.    
  
He hoped it meant something this time.  
  
  
*** *** ***  
  
  
Natasha swayed in his vision, wisps of red fire spilling from her head.  Howard, sobbing sloppy and choked.  
  
He wondered if there would be time to give him last rites.  Maybe that would help this time.  Maybe he could get into the afterlife with a stranger's blessing.  
  
Maybe.  
  
Red enveloped him, wrapping him in smoke and warmth.  Ginger snaps.  _Wanda_.  
  
**No**.  She wasn't supposed to be here.  Not Wanda.  
  
_"Hush, Steven, shh..."_  
  
When the rush of pain swallowed his breath, he let go, letting the sweet spice of Wanda's magic slip through his fingers.  
  
Flying was just like falling slower.  
  
He could see why Sam loved it so much.  
  
  
*** *** ***  
  
  
_"HEY.  Everybody shut the fuck up."_  
  
_"Cap.  Hey, Cap, hey."_  
  
He didn't want to be here.  It was too white.  Red.  No blue, no more, just red and black and red.  
  
He missed the white for once.  
  
_"Just hang on, we're getting you some help, Cap, hey, look at me - don't - "_  
  
He didn't want to look anymore.  
  
  
*** *** ***  
  
  
He narrowed his vision to the man, making sure both hands were visible outside of the bags in his arms.  
  
He'd been all over the news in the days since Cap fell and chaos rose in his place.  He shouldn't be at the corner store buying snacks without protection.  
  
He didn't even have his wings.  
  
He didn't let the man get to the curb, only to the corner where he probably intended on hailing a cab.  
  
He needed to talk to him first.  
  
"Is he dead?"  
  
The man blinked at him through dark glasses.  "Did you shoot him?"  
  
"No.  I killed the man that did.  Rumlow," he said, earning the reaction he hoped for.  "It wasn't Stark or Romanov's people.  It was HYDRA.  It's always HYDRA when it comes to Cap.  Is he dead?"  
  
"What do you think?"  
  
He made sure the street was clear enough but he scanned again before pulling the box from his jacket and tucking it into one of the bags.  "That's his.  Tell him I believe it now.  I only - "  
  
"You took his paint stuff?  You took his - damn, man, I should punch you in the face."  
  
"Yeah.  I needed to know it was him.  _Steve_.  I need _Steve_ to be alive.  I need...I would really like to see him."  
  
"You'll have to get past the witch for that," the man said.  
  
But it was the confirmation he needed that Steve was alive.  He could get to him.  
  
He could save him.  He could have his place back at his side, on his six.  
  
He could be Bucky again if he could find Steve.  
  
  
*** *** ***  
  
  
_"Nobody gives a fuck about Captain America right now.  We care about Steve."_  
  
_"You never cared about Steve, Natasha.  There are plenty of guys on your side of the debate that didn't cut their ties when they cast their vote.  You severed your ties like you were cutting a throat.  Steve's not your concern."_  
  
_"Sam.  Please."_  
  
_"You can see yourself out, oh, or plead your case to Barton or Fury on your way out.  You'll never make it past the witch.  Hell, I'd kind of like to see you try.  If you cared about Steve, you wouldn't have stood over Captain America watching him bleed out.  You watched Tony try and hold his blood in with both hands and you just stood there - and you say you care about Steve?"_  
  
_"I froze - he's - he was - my friend."_  
  
_"Your friend died on those steps, Natasha.  Now get the hell out of my face."_  
  
  
*** *** ***

**Author's Note:**

> I have a weird affection for Steve/Wanda. I think they'd be good for each other, and fiercely protective.


End file.
